To Hold Her Heart
by englishtutor
Summary: In which John Watson deals with his trust issues and learns the depths of Mary Morstan's courage. Mary has spent a lifetime with only herself to rely on. Can she learn to share life's troubles? Companion piece to "To Hold His Hand"-I recommend reading that story first.
1. To Win Her Heart

This is a companion piece for "To Hold His Hand." It is chapter three of that story from John's POV.

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"I'm going out. I'll see you later," he called to Sherlock as he snatched up his phone and wallet from the coffee table.

Sherlock appeared in the kitchen door. "Going out with what's-her-name?" he intoned.

John snorted sarcastically. "Yeah, what's-her-name. The one you spent two weeks with solving the murder of her father. The one I've been dating ever since."

"The same woman for weeks on end," Sherlock mused acerbically. "A record for you, isn't it? And not even a kiss to show for your investment of time."

John rolled his eyes. He really did not want to know how his friend had deduced this. "Three weeks. And I like to let the lady set the pace in a relationship, for your information. It's called being a gentleman."

"Hmm. From all the evidence I've seen, the obvious emotional and probable physical abuse she suffered in her childhood has rendered her incapable of any sort of intimacy. Good luck, John." Sherlock returned to the kitchen, leaving John staring after him in disbelief.

"You see why I don't bring her over here, don't you?" he observed, a bit sharply. "That's the sort of deductive reasoning that you really need to keep to yourself, Sherlock."

This brought Sherlock back into the sitting room, something akin to concern on his face. "You're serious about this one," he observed wonderingly. "I've never seen you serious before. This is new." He studied his flatmate as if he were one of his specimens in a petri dish. "This one could really break your heart, couldn't she? She matters to you."

John nodded. "Yeah. She matters. She . . . could," he admitted softly. "I really think she could."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Where are you taking her, then?" he inquired at last.

"Just to the cinema."

"Dull," Sherlock declared sternly.

John sighed. "I know. After rushing about with you for forty-eight hours with almost no sleep, it's all I have the energy for tonight. But, I just have to see her. I can't wait until tomorrow," he confessed.

"Well, try to stay awake," Sherlock advised. "From what I understand, falling asleep on a date is considered bad form and will be frowned upon."

This made John chuckle. This was as much approbation as he could expect from his friend. "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," he grinned. "See you later."

Walking to the tube station, John mused on Sherlock's deductions. John himself had early on come to the same conclusions about Mary. He was a doctor, after all, and all the signs were there: a complete lack of lasting or meaningful relationships; a tendency to hold the world at arm's length; a reluctance to talk about the past; an aversion to shallow relationships. These facts were inconsistent with her warm and friendly nature and her open honesty in every other area of her life. They were becoming good friends, and he hoped—he longed—to become more.

John Watson had always enjoyed the company of women, and he had never had any problem getting dates. For whatever reasons (and he was not vain enough to speculate what those reasons might be), women seemed to fall for him quite easily—initially. Maintaining a relationship for any period of time had always been the problem, and John had grown accustomed to being eventually dumped, usually in a messy, humiliating way. In Uni, it was his single-mindedness towards his studies and his throwing himself into sport that annoyed women—they tended to feel neglected. After he joined the army, he was constantly moved about and always on call—women who were initially attracted to him as a romantic figure in uniform soon resented his busy and dangerous lifestyle. And since he'd come to be Sherlock Holmes' flatmate, the chaos that was his life was further complicated by being the equivalent of a single father raising a petulant and demanding three-year-old.

The only constant in his life was uncertainty, and he'd never yet found a woman willing to put up with it for very long. Ugly break-ups became an inevitable part of his life; one he hated and dreaded, but had come to expect as a given and as the price for being himself.

Still, he had to admit to himself that, had he found someone he really wanted, he might have made more of an effort and might have made a go of a meaningful relationship. The truth was, he had never before found anyone more exciting and attractive to him than his job was. But Mary . . . . Yes, Sherlock had deduced him correctly. Mary was different. For Mary, he would even be willing to give up The Work and settle down for a normal life, if that would be the price he had to pay to be with her. Mary mattered. This one could, indeed, break his heart.

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The evening had gone much better than he could have expected, given his exhaustion from the case and lack of sleep. They had held hands during the film, and he had been surprised at how intimate it had been. The warmth from her hand had permeated his entire being, infusing him with energy and joy he could never have anticipated.

And then, at the café afterwards, they had talked and laughed with perfect accord. She had kissed his bruised knuckles, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and had not been dismayed by this evidence of his dangerous life. She could not have been more perfect for him. She had no resentment about being abandoned two evenings earlier as he rushed off to The Work. Instead, she seemed fascinated by the chaos. He had been impressed by her during her own case, as she rushed about with him and Sherlock and never turned a hair when violence ensued. She had seemed amused by Sherlock's insults and tactlessness, and was endlessly patient. And she was clever—even Sherlock commented on how unusually clever she was. She was kind. She had a lively sense of humor. She was beautiful and young and full of life. She was . . . .

. . . too good for him, he concluded. This was bound to end badly. He had never been able to keep a girl happy. As they flagged a taxi, his energy began to flag as the past two days caught up with him. He was weary to the bone. And yet, he could not bear to say good-night, and so he suggested a stroll across Westminster Bridge. And now he sat in the taxi as they headed that way and mused on his fate and wondered how long he might have with this wonderful woman before she came to her senses and left him. Perhaps this was just the weariness getting him down. Perhaps he was over thinking things.

They walked across the bridge hand in hand, admiring the magnificent view. And then she said it. "John, may I be frank?"

In John's experience, there were two kinds of break-ups. Most of them were the messy, ugly kind involving angry words, accusations, sometimes shouting, sometimes tears. But some break-ups were calm and reasonable and usually began with "May I be honest with you?" What would it be this time? "Let's just be friends"? "I like you, but I can't deal with your life"? Or, "I'm sorry, but I've found you're just not my type"?

He stopped and leaned against the railing, facing her but not looking at her. Subconsciously, he stood straighter and kept his eyes ahead, dealing stoically with adversity like the soldier he was. "Of course," he told her, his voice steady and kind.

"You know I have difficulty making friends," she began. "That's why it's so amazing to me that we've become such good friends so quickly. I think you're really the best friend I've ever had."

Ah, so it was to be the "friends" one. Inwardly, John groaned. Could he bear to just be friends with Mary? Could he be close to her and know they would never be more than friends? But wouldn't that be better than losing her altogether?

"I want you to know how much I value our relationship," Mary continued, driving the stake deeper into his heart.

"Um, so do I," he ventured, eyes still on the horizon. "Very much."

"But at the risk of losing something that has become very precious to me," Mary went on, and grasped his coat lapels in her hands firmly. "I'd like to say I wish you'd stop dawdling and kiss me already."

"Stop . . . what?" His mind stuttered as her words threw a lifeline to his heart which he'd just confined to the pit of despair. He now dared to turn his gaze to her face, and he saw there the twin to his terror of being rejected. And yet, she was so much more courageous than he, freely offering her heart to him to do with as he wished—whether to abuse and discard it, or cherish it like a man.

"I said," she repeated, her nervous look replaced by a mischievous twinkle, "I wish you'd stop dawdling and kiss me already." She tugged at his coat lapels.

Now she was reading him like a primary school textbook, and he discovered he not only didn't mind it a bit, he found it oddly comforting. He grinned, and her dimples deepened enchantingly.

"Well, if you insist," he said lightly, although in utter awe of the gift he'd just been given. He kissed her gently, almost inquiringly; then held her face in his hands and searched her eyes. He saw joy and excitement there, and allowed himself to believe it. He determined in his heart to deserve the trust she'd placed in him. And then he wrapped her in his grateful arms and kissed her properly; and thankfully, he stopped thinking for a while.


	2. To Deserve Her Heart

This chapter takes place immediately after my story "When Mary Changed Her Mind."

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He lay awake in the early hours of the morning, just breathing in her scent and marveling at the miracle that was his wife. His wife. He could not seem to take it in—only hours ago, this amazing, compelling woman had consented to be his wife. John reveled in the way her head just fit into the hollow of his shoulder just beneath the collar-bone, as if he had been made-to-order just for her use. This was now his foremost goal in life—to be of use of this precious woman who had generously and courageously given her heart to him without reservations.

It had been a whirlwind courtship, intense and exciting, and sometimes terrifying. The two of them, so well matched in their temperaments and interests and outlook on life, were also equally well-matched in emotional baggage and trust issues. He had become so accustomed to rejection throughout his lifetime that right up until the moment she arrived at the wedding, joyfully dancing towards him across the park, he had had the niggling fear that she would come to her senses and realize she was making a foolish mistake in entrusting herself to him. Her greatest fear—her only fear-was of losing people, and he had made it abundantly clear that his job was dangerous and fraught with uncertainty. And yet, she was taking her chances with him. Fortunately for him, for whatever unfathomable reasons, she seemed to feel he was worth the gamble. And immediately following the ceremony, he set about to prove he was not.

He kissed the top of her head and she sighed in her sleep, wrapping herself around him possessively. Their wedding had ended in disaster. Any other woman, John imagined, would have walked out on him after what he had done during the reception. And yet, he couldn't have done anything else, and the fact that she understood this filled him with gratitude. His thoughts ran back over the events of that busy day.

The ceremony in Regent's Park had been casual, brief, and to the point, just as they had planned it. Not quite six weeks after he had nearly died of a knife wound to the back—just over six weeks after he had proposed to her—they had been joined in holy matrimony at last. The guests then milled about or sat on blankets on the ground, enjoying the simple picnic fare and listening to a recorded mix of their favorite songs on a CD. And then, Sherlock had sidled over to John and whispered, "Pickpocket at two o-clock," indicating a spot a hundred yards away.

John frowned. The man indicated looked innocent enough, but if Sherlock was certain . . . . Suddenly, the detective was off on a jog across the park, leaping lightly over a bench that loomed in his path. John looked at Mary, who was deep in conversation with Molly, and sighed. Of course there would be thieves in the park in the middle of their wedding reception. He stepped over to Lestrade and pointed to where Sherlock was now cautiously approaching the still-unsuspecting suspect.

"Pickpocket," he murmured, not wanting to alarm his other guests. Lestrade nodded, and the two strode purposefully towards the unfolding drama.

Suddenly, the thief caught sight of Sherlock and took off at a dead run. The detective was after his quarry like a shot, and John and Lestrade had all they could to do to catch up to them. The thief then shouted a warning cry, and was joined by a second young man in the sprint across the park.

They raced past The Hub sports center and plowed straight through a group of children who were playing tag on the green. The children scattered, screaming, some of them bowled over by the young thieves when they failed to get out of the way quickly enough. The adults in the crowd began shouting and panicking, only frightening the children more.

"Go on, I'll catch up!" Lestrade yelled to John, and began to quickly bring order to the chaotic group with his authoritative voice and calm, confident manner.

Meanwhile, the pickpocketing duo split up. John saw Sherlock swerve after the young man headed towards Longbridge, leading over the water towards the busy, rather crowded facilities beyond it. The doctor stayed on the heels of the second man, headed right for the crotch of the Y-shaped lake. A plunge through the trees on the shore slowed them both, and then seconds later, John lunged and tackled his quarry and they rolled over and over as he attempted to subdue the thief. Normally, he would have been more than a match for the young man, but John was still recovering from his knife-wound and the forced inactivity of the past six weeks.

Finally grasping the thief by the collar, an impatient John drew back and head-butted the man in the face. "I'll have you know," he puffed angrily, "you've interrupted a perfectly lovely wedding. Mine!"

"So go back to it!" gasped the pickpocket. "No one asked you to interfere!" He eeled out of John's grasp and staggered to his feet. John leaped after him and tackled him a second time, not noticing how close they were to the edge of the lake. The momentum took them over the bank with a splash.

The cold plunge seemed to take the fight out of the thief, and John hauled him onto the shore with a grim expression on his face. Soaking wet and muddy, he could only imagine what Mary was going to say to him when he returned to the wedding party. "Come on," he growled crossly, jerking his captive's dominant arm behind his back and holding tightly to the opposite shoulder. John's own shoulder was beginning to seize up from the cold, and the still-healing muscles in his back throbbed. He was grateful that his prisoner was being cooperative—he wasn't sure he could hold onto to the young man if he really wanted to escape at this point.

Across the green, John could see Sherlock by the bridge, his own quarry well in hand, both also dripping wet. The doctor wondered who had tossed whom off Longbridge and into the lake first. The Met were now arriving in force—John could just imagine how many frantic emergency calls they had received in the past few minutes from Regent's Park. The police reached Sherlock first and took his thief into custody.

Seeing his partner in crime being handcuffed seemed to rouse John's prisoner back into action. He began to struggle wildly and John lost his grip on the man's shoulder. Whipping around, the thief knocked John off-balance, and they both went down again. This time, John landed hard on his back, the pain completely paralyzing him for a few precious seconds—just long enough for his prisoner to gain his feet. John's eyes widened as he saw the man's foot rear back in readiness for a kick aimed at his head.

But before he could gather himself to roll aside, a white blur swept past, knocking the thief to the ground with a shriek of surprise. John rose to his knees and gaped at the sight of his bride kneeling on the pickpocket's chest, punching his already bloody nose with good effect.

"Get off me, you bitch!" the thief screamed desperately.

"That was my husband's head you were kicking!" she informed him grimly, trying to punch him again as he grasped at her wrists to protect himself.

John surged to his feet, enraged by the sight of the young man's pawing at his wife. His wrath overruled his pain, and after gently helping Mary to her feet, he gripped the thief's collar in his right hand, lifting the man to his feet, and smashed his left fist into the man's jaw. "You don't manhandle my wife," he said tightly, employing a few well-chosen and colorful curses as well. He threw the thief to the ground again.

"The bitch attacked ME!" the thief gasped out in protest, in too much pain to move again. This statement did not settle well with John, and it was only the timely arrival of Lestrade at that moment which saved the thief further damage to his face.

"That's enough, mate," Lestrade soothed the outraged groom as he hauled John bodily from the hapless pickpocket. "The Met's here. They'll take him from here."

"She attacked me! I didn't touch her!" the pickpocket repeated insistently as he was taken into custody. It was, after all, the only criminal charge against him of which he was truly innocent.

"It's her wedding day, mate," Lestrade informed him helpfully. "I always find it wisest to let a bride have things her own way on her wedding day. If she wants to attack you, you ought to just let her."

Sherlock, who had arrived at the same time as the police, added dryly, "I always find it wise to allow Mrs. Watson to have things her own way at any time." Lestrade snickered.

In the meantime, John was approaching his new wife with concern on his face. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right. I'm not the one recovering from surgery," she reminded him in a mildly scolding voice. "I imagine you've set your recovery back several weeks." But she was smiling, and threw her arms around him gently.

"Don't. I'm sopping," John protested, pushing her back.

Mary chuckled. "It doesn't matter. But if you'd told me you had planned an entertainment for the reception, I might have dressed more casually."

John looked at her affectionately. Her hair, so carefully coiffed for the day, was disheveled; her simple white dress was dirty and grass-stained. She'd lost her shoes at some point, and her stockings were torn. He thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

Now looking down at her, snuggled into his side in bed, he was filled with gratitude that she was still with him. She had deserved his full attention on their wedding day, and he had allowed The Work to intrude. He had behaved badly and he knew it, but she did not seem to mind. He kissed her gently, and she stirred and awoke.

"Not sleeping?" she murmured.

"Watching you sleep," he replied sheepishly.

She snorted. "How bored you must be," she teased him.

"Mm-mm. You have me completely fascinated," he assured her.

"You say the sweetest things," she cooed, rewarding him with a kiss.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I know I keep saying it, but I really am," he said sincerely.

"Sorry for what?"

"Ruining our wedding. Rushing off like that without a word, spoiling the reception. Spoiling your dress. Letting my job interfere with our personal life."

Mary sighed. "Darling, your job is a part of our personal life. You can't just not do your job. If you see someone committing a crime, you obviously have to take care of it."

"Still, you must have been angry with me when you saw me take off without saying anything," he insisted.

She hugged him close. "No, I really wasn't. I trust you entirely, Captain. I know you would have let me know you were going if you'd had the time. If you left, it was because you had to. I understand that. And, of course, you were quite easy to follow! Anyway, it's our marriage that's important, isn't it? Not the wedding. We got that part done quite well."

He laughed softly. "We did, didn't we? I love you, Mrs. Watson," he whispered.

"Prove it!" she demanded, kissing him.


	3. To Comfort Her Heart

This story occurs immediately after the events of the chapter entitled "A Price Too High" in my story called "Making Friends and Forming Alliances."

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He held her until her sobs subsided and she lay limp and crumpled against him, utterly spent. She had not spoken one word since he'd arrived, breathless and worried, at her hospital bed-side, but had only clung to him with a terrible desperation. His own silent tears had dampened her hair, his cheek resting on the top of her head, and he felt so entirely useless, unable to think of anything to say except the obvious ("I'm here") and the untrue ("it'll be okay"). Their child was gone. After only twelve weeks of existence, it was over. That would never be okay. John pushed his own grief deliberately aside and concentrated his attention on comforting Mary. She was the one who just nearly bled out, who suffered untold pain. She was the one whose belly was now empty. He would have time to grieve later, when she was stronger.

Her sobs had given way to shuddering breaths, and then she slowly dropped into a doze, still feeling the effect of the general anesthesia; but still he held her, unable to let her go. He had been almost 400 miles away from her when he had received Sherlock's frantic text: "Come home at once. On our way to hospital." A thousand possible scenarios had flooded his imagination, but the most plausible one had been the truth. Miscarriage. He ought never to have left London. He ought to have been there with her. Instead, he had still been en route while she went into emergency surgery, still on his way when she awoke from recovery. He felt he had failed her completely.

The adrenaline that had surged through him the moment he read the first text from Sherlock had put his every system on red alert and kept him going all that long night—and now it was deserting him, leaving him wrung-out and shaking. Concerned that his trembling arms would disturb her much-needed rest, he lowered her onto the pillows and smoothed the damp hair from her swollen, tear-streaked face. A wave of tenderness swept through him. His strong, fearless Mary looked like a fragile child, her expression troubled even in her sleep. It infuriated him that she should be subjected to yet another tragedy. John bent and kissed her forehead, and she stirred a bit in her sleep.

"John?" she whispered.

"I'm here," he assured her gently, stroking her hair.

Her lips pulled up slightly into the trembling smile. "Okay," she sighed, and went back to sleep.

He watched her until he was satisfied that she would remain asleep for a while, and then he stalked from the room to the nearest family waiting area on the floor. Yes, Sherlock was still there, slumped in one of those torturous plastic chairs, focused on a point in the air midway across the room. The detective slowly turned his gaze to his friend's face.

"Is she all right?" he asked tentatively.

"She's asleep," John replied. "She's not all right. I'm not all right." He paced around the room, the rage that had been building up in him for hours now boiling to the surface. This was a safe place to vent; Sherlock was a safe person to vent upon. John had an intense need to vent.

"You're angry," Sherlock observed helpfully, getting him started.

"Damn it, yeah, I'm bloody furious," John agreed through gritted teeth.

Sherlock hesitated to continue, watching John intently. "But, not . . . not at me," he concluded, some relief in his tone.

John stopped his relentless motion to stare at his friend. "At you? Why the hell would I be angry with you? You've never been anything but kind to Mary. You're even polite to her most of the time. You probably saved her life, getting her here so quickly."

"I thought I was negligent, not having seen the symptoms earlier. I should have brought her here sooner." Sherlock shook his head repentantly. "You would have done so."

John sighed. "It wouldn't have mattered. The result would have been the same. You were there for her tonight when she needed you. That's a hell of a lot more than I managed to do. That's more than most of the people in her life have managed to do."

"You're angry with yourself," Sherlock stated. "But there's no need to be. You got here in record time."

"Thanks to Mycroft's intervention. Never thought I'd be saying that!" John muttered bitterly. "I should never have left. Harry could just as easily have moved to Dublin without my help." He started in on his pacing again. "We've been living in a fantasy-world, these past few weeks. In the back of my mind, I knew it all along, but I didn't want to think about it. And she's been living in denial ever since she found out about the baby." John's voice broke and he had to stop speaking, but his pacing increased in intensity.

Sherlock's eyes followed him around the room for a while. "You are referring to the internal damage she apparently suffered as an adolescent," he concluded.

John stopped and turned on him. "How do you know about that?"

The detective shrugged. "I perused her medical files while we were waiting for you to arrive. She has an extensive medical record. Broken bones, internal injuries, quite a long hospital stay at age sixteen."

A chair flew across the room and crashed into the wall. John looked from his now painful foot to the bent ruin of plastic and chrome ruefully. "Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not." John resumed pacing frenetically, his fists clenched in fury.

"She's never spoken to you about what happened?" Sherlock prompted, as gently as he was capable of speaking.

"Never," John rasped in frustration. "All she's ever told me about her past is that her mother died when she was four, and her father sent her off to be passed around among distant relatives and dubious friends until he disappeared himself. I've only guessed at what must have happened to her during that time, based on her behavior and medical files. It's obvious that she suffered neglect and abuse throughout her childhood, and was brutalized and raped when she was sixteen. But she's never mentioned it to me. Not even a hint. I don't. . . ." he stopped moving, stopped talking, took some deep breaths to gain control of himself. "I don't know why."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Why did you never ask?"

John sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Don't think I haven't wanted to. But I won't try to pry it out of her. That would be needlessly cruel, just to satisfy my own need to know. If she can't talk about it, I won't try to force her to. She'll tell me what she wants me to know when she's ready." Pacing again, he kicked over another chair. "The bastard who hurt her has effectively hurt her again, and cost the life of our child. If I ever find out . . . ." A third chair paid the price of his impotent rage.

"Perhaps this is why Mary hasn't told you about it. She may not wish to be married to a convicted felon and spend her life visiting you in prison," Sherlock remarked dryly, and John laughed mirthlessly.

He sank into the chair next to his friend and buried his face in his hands. "I never even looked at her medical records before she got pregnant. But the obstetrician pointed it out to me, said it was such a miracle that she was able to conceive at all. I knew, in the back of my mind, that he was trying to warn me that she wasn't likely to be able to carry to term. I didn't want to know that. We wanted to believe it could happen, that we could have this . . . ." he trailed off and went silent. Sherlock sat awkwardly and tapped his steepled fingers to his lips thoughtfully. To his credit, he remained silent, too.

Pulling a long breath, John sat up in his chair and stared into space. "I swore when I married her I'd do everything in my power to protect her from being hurt. I've failed her so many times," he grieved.

"That was an unrealistic promise," Sherlock informed him. "You set yourself up for failure. No one can avoid all harm in this dangerous world, no matter how vigilant."

John sighed. "She's had far more than her fair share of harm," he said bitterly. "Why can't I spare her more?"

"Did she ask you to?" Sherlock prompted wisely.

John laughed grimly. "No, of course not. She didn't need to. I'd give my life to keep her safe. I'd do anything to spare her more grief."

"Perhaps protection is not what she wants from you," the detective suggested. John stared at him, at a loss. "Perhaps she has everything she needs from you already," Sherlock continued.

"And what might that be?" John wondered softly, calmer.

"You," Sherlock said.


	4. To Protect Her Heart

This chapter takes place immediately after "His Spare Watson" and "An Attempt at Ordinary", and just before "The Watson's Revenge".

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He sat on the floor, propped against the couch, his stocking feet outstretched to the fire, and sighed in utter contentment. The six days John had been away from Mary had been the longest in his life. They had been married just over eleven months, and she was already such a part of him that separation was physically painful and emotionally disorienting. But now he was home, and the world was back into proper alignment. She came in from the kitchen, carrying two wine glasses, and settled herself between his legs on the floor, leaning back on his chest comfortably. He took a glass from her hand and sipped from it.

"This has been a perfect weekend," Mary murmured. "I missed you so much. You're never to go out of town without me again."

John smiled. "I was just thinking the same thing." He hugged her to him snuggly and nuzzled her ear. "I shall never deprive myself of your company again. However, I contend that my week was longer than yours, since you spent half of it running about solving crimes."

Mary chuckled. "Oh, I agree, Captain, I definitely had the better part of the bargain, being chased by reporters and tormented with inquiries into my personal life." The Cornwall case had brought Mary to the attention of the press, an event they had so far been able to avoid.

The medical conference had been important, a great honor, an opportunity of a lifetime—and deadly dull. Knowing Mary was off to Cornwall on an exciting murder case with Sherlock while he was glad-handing a lot of boring medical professionals only made it harder to be away. He had, in the end, skipped out on the final banquet and come home early, surprising Mary and Sherlock in the flat on Baker Street Friday evening rather than waiting until Saturday as planned. Mary's squeal of delight as she flung herself into his arms had been worth the entire ordeal.

They had spent several hours in Baker Street, having a late dinner together and tormenting Sherlock by reading John's blog entry based on the notes Mary had e-mailed to him concerning the Cornwall murder case. Ever vigilant about Mary's emotional state, John had noted a slight difference in her interactions with Sherlock. It was so slight that no one else would have noticed, but he was sure that something had happened in Cornwall to disturb Mary's peace of mind.

John considered himself to be a fairly ordinary chap—he knew he was no hero, but just a man who did his job, whether as a soldier performing his duties or a doctor fulfilling his Hippocratic Oath. Heroics were for the extraordinary, like Sherlock. But Mary had aroused all his protective instincts almost from the first. She made him want to be like a knight of old, to wield a sword in her defense and to shield her from all forms of harm. He realized that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—she was the strongest, most self-sufficient person he'd ever known. Nevertheless, he wanted nothing more than to save her from ever being hurt again. Life delivered all manner of blows to them from every side, and he was not always able to deflect those blows away from her onto himself—but the desire was there. Whatever it was that troubled her, he longed to make it better.

They had come home to their flat late Friday night and had locked the door and turned off their phones, shutting the world away and devoting all their attention to reacquainting themselves with each other. For forty-eight hours, nothing had existed but the two of them. Now is was Sunday evening, and the real world was approaching, calling for their attention. It was time to deal with the events of the Cornwall case, before the busyness of everyday life took over.

"I ought to have gone to Edinburgh with you," Mary was saying. "Apparently, according to all the personnel of New Scotland Yard, I was not a supportive wife by staying away from your moment of honor."

John snorted. "You would have been bored out of your mind. I certainly was. Why should you have had to suffer through that ordeal? And as for being supportive, you're the breadwinner of the family—how much more supportive could you be?" he teased.

"You do know how proud I am of you, don't you?" she said a bit anxiously. "You can make fun all you want, but it was a great honor, and one you completely deserved. I would have been proud to have been there to hear your speech." She twisted her head around to look up at him as she spoke, and he bent to stop her mouth with a gentle kiss.

"You are the best wife a man could have, whatever Scotland Yard might think," he assured her. "And I'm pleased you had a chance to run off and solve crimes with Sherlock for a change. I know it was great fun for you. Are you really worried about what people think? That you ran off with my best friend the moment my back was turned?"

Mary laughed cheerfully. "People are such idiots. Why should I care what they think? If they can't understand our relationship, that's their problem."

John mentally ticked that possibility off his list of what might have troubled his wife while he was gone. He considered that, after all, perhaps it was best just to ask. "Something happened in Cornwall that's been bothering you, though. I've been wondering what it was," he ventured.

"Nothing important, really," she hedged, as he knew she would. She was so self-sufficient, it was difficult for her to share her problems with him. "Sherlock did something that annoyed me, but I handled it."

He chuckled. "If Sherlock went a week without being annoying, I would have had to wonder what was wrong with him," he said. "But you're better at handling him than anyone."

"True," she admitted, sipping at her wine. Deflecting.

He decided to persist. Yes, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But he longed for her to let him share the burdens of life, and it was so hard for her to let him. "Was it that experiment he insisted on doing? The one that nearly got you both killed? I would call that rather annoying."

Mary snorted with laughter. "Actually, that was rather exciting. He was right, of course—it needed to be done. Testing that drug by conventional means would have taken too long, and the murderer would have fled the country. And I was quite pleased with myself for saving his life. Took him down a notch! Here he thought he was looking after me, but all the time, it was me looking after him." Her voice sobered with this last statement, and John felt he was getting somewhere.

"Did it bother you that he tried to get you to leave before he started the experiment?" he guessed. He hated to pry into her feelings, but he was so close he just couldn't stop now.

"Of course not. He was trying to protect me. He knew you'd kill him if he got me killed. It wasn't like the night before—he wasn't just trying to exclude me."

The night before. All that Mary's notes had said about the night before was that Sherlock had clandestinely followed the victim's husband across the moor and collected a few clues on his own. Hmm. Now John was sure he knew what was wrong. "What happened that night, Mary? He took off without you, I take it. Knowing him, he didn't tell you where he was going. He just vanished without a word, didn't he?"

She sighed. "It was worse than that. I was in the bath, and I could hear him talking with someone in the garden. I peeked out the window, and saw the victim's husband, Sterndale, sitting on the bench with him, smoking cigars. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but they both looked very annoyed. And I thought, isn't the husband always the most likely suspect? What was Sterndale doing there? What if he realized that Sherlock suspected him, but that he had no evidence whatever? Wouldn't it benefit him to get rid of Sherlock before he could discover any evidence against him?"

John hugged her tightly. "So you ran to the rescue, didn't you?" he said admiringly.

"I don't know about that," Mary shrugged. "I got dressed as quickly as I could and grabbed your gun off the bed where I'd left it. But when I got out into the garden, they had both disappeared. There was no sign of them anywhere—except for the cigar butts on the ground." She sighed. "I didn't know what to do, John. I had no real reason to suspect foul play on Sterndale's part. For all I knew at the time, he was truly a grieving husband desperate to discover why his wife had died. But all I could picture was Sterndale dragging Sherlock off at gunpoint to kill him in a more conveniently secluded spot. I tried his phone, but he'd turned it off. I even looked for footprints to follow, but I'm no tracker. I couldn't figure out which footprints belonged to whom. I walked up and down the road a bit, but . . . ." She trailed off. "He just disappeared and left me behind," she whispered.

John kissed her hair tenderly. "Thoughtless bastard," he muttered angrily. "He could have at the least sent you a text before turning his phone off. He never thinks of anything but the case when he gets an idea in his head. I'm sorry he did that to you, love."

"The worst part is," she said softly, "he didn't know it would frighten me. He deduces everything about everyone else. How does he not know that about me? I mean, I like to think I keep my fears pretty well hidden from the world at large, but from him? Does he really not see me at all?"

John thought a moment, not sure what to say. It was so clear to him that Mary's one and only fear in life was losing people—how had Sherlock missed that basic fact? "I think he has a bit of blind spot when it comes to you, love. I do believe he thinks more highly of you than just about any other person on earth. But besides that, I also believe that he deliberately chose not to tell you he was going in order to protect you. I think it would devastate him if anything happened to you."

She sighed. "You'd think he'd know me well enough to realize that I'd rather face any amount of danger head-on than be left behind to wonder."

John smiled grimly, but secretly he was overjoyed that she was sharing this with him. "Well, we'll just have to dream up a proper punishment for him, won't we? Let's put our heads together and come up with a plan, shall we?" He was rewarded with a wicked giggle from his wife, and they spent a pleasant time together finishing their wine and devising a lesson to teach Sherlock not to take Mary's courage for granted. But that's another story . . . .

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That "other story" is "The Watson's Revenge".


	5. To Know Her Heart

This chapter takes place during the action of my story "Boscombe Pond". It is Mary's revelation in that story from John's point of view. MAJOR SPOILERS for "Boscombe Pond". If you haven't read it and don't want the mystery spoiled, skip this chapter!

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The case had turned into an utter fiasco, and John found himself wishing they had never involved themselves with it. Mary had wanted to help her old school friend, Alice Turner—one of the few friends she'd had growing up—and of course, this friend turned out to the be the murderer. _What else did we expect?_ John mused bitterly.

It had started out to be such a promising trip. During the journey to Ross-on-Wye, Mary had regaled John and Sherlock with stories of the holidays she had spent on Boscombe Pond with the Turners. John had been thrilled. Mary had never before been so forthcoming about her past, and he was reveling in her memories with her. It seemed that the Turners were one of the few bright spots in her past and John had found her pleasant reminiscences intensely pleasurable himself.

And then it had all turned to nightmares, as Sherlock delved into the case and revealed the Turners to be not all they had portrayed themselves to be. It was gratifying to have absolved an innocent man of murder, but for Mary's childhood friend to finally confess to the murder instead had been a horrifying ordeal for everyone concerned.

But aside from the catastrophe of the murder case, Boscombe Pond itself had brought back memories that Mary had long been trying to suppress. Her revelations of the night before had left them both raw with emotion at a time when they had needed all their strength to deal with the Turners. In between meetings with attorneys and the press, John walked out into an alleyway to catch his breath and allow himself time to process their conversation of the night before.

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He had entered the bedroom late that night and saw her standing by the window, looking out into the shadowy wood beyond the Turner's luxurious house. He joined her there, his arm around her, watching in the dark as Sherlock prowled the grounds for clues in the garden below them.

Mary mused aloud concerning the revelations of the case, trying to work out how she could have been so wrong about the Turners. John only held her more tightly against his side, but wisely said little. In their two years of marriage, he had learned how to discern when she needed him to speak and when she needed him to stay quiet. Whatever Mary needed, John was determined to give her.

"I'm glad I know you, Captain," Mary said softly. "If I'd never met you, I'd be sure there wasn't a soul on earth with an ounce of integrity." John felt the weight of that statement keenly, determined to live up to her faith in him, to be the man she believed him to be. She hid her face in his shoulder, not quite crying, and he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. He was fairly certain that the Turners were not really what was troubling her.

"There's more, isn't there? There's something else bothering you," he dared to murmur gently. "Do you feel like talking about it?"

She was still for a long moment. Then she sighed and lifted her head and looked out the window again. "This is the room I always stayed in when I visited here. The last day of my childhood was spent here. The very moment it ended, I was standing right here. This is the last place, the last time, I felt settled and safe for a long time after. I thought that it would bring back happy memories of those times, being here. But . . . ." she was unable to continue. She hid her face in his neck once more.

"You were here, on that last holiday, when you got the news about your father disappearing," John realized. She nodded.

"It wasn't his disappearance that traumatized me, though. He'd vanished from my life ten years earlier, when he sent me away. It was what came after that was . . . difficult. Because since he was gone, no one knew what to do with me."

He waited patiently for her to continue, barely able to breathe, certain he was at last going to be permitted to share in the tragedy of her assault. "I was supposedly living with my great-aunt at the time. She was elderly and didn't like me and didn't know what to do with me, which is why I was allowed to spend so much time here. During the course of the investigation into my father's disappearance, she informed the authorities that she could no longer be responsible for me. They were the ones who'd misplaced my father—it was up to them to look after me. They found a distant cousin who agreed to take me in. Unfortunately, my cousin's husband was rather a perv." John's jaw tightened against the top of her head, but to his credit he controlled himself and let her finish her story without interruption. "I managed to keep out of his way for a while, but one night he managed to corner me. I grabbed the first thing that came to hand and smashed it over his head. It only served to make him furious. I ended up in hospital."

John's arms tightened around her protectively, hoping she could not tell how his heart was hammering in his chest. He was trembling with suppressed rage. She pulled away far enough to be able to look him in the eyes. "I never meant to tell you that. I'm so sorry. I never meant you to know."

"Why?" John whispered hoarsely, not trusting his voice any louder. "Why would you not want me to know?" This was the very thing he'd longed to learn for over two years: why had she never trusted him with her past?

"Because I never wanted to put that look on your face." She put her hand on his cheek caressingly.

"What look? The one that says I'm going to hunt down the bastard who hurt you and tear him apart with my bare hands?" he asked, his voice husky with menace.

One corner of Mary's mouth pulled up into a smile. "No, I quite like that look, to be honest. You can put on your sexy 'vengeance-is-mine' face anytime you like."

John snorted a reluctant laugh. "What, then?" he murmured, his throat aching with the pain of it.

"You've had so much sorrow in your life already. I never meant to make you sad. I'm not sad, not most of the time. It's all in the past; I've done the counselling and the sorting out of feelings and all that. I let it make me a better and stronger person. By the time I was released from hospital, the government had decided to give me a "sorry-we-lost-your-dad" settlement. With money of my own, I was free to be responsible for myself. It all worked out for the best, in the end. There's no need dredging it all up again, like digging up a corpse. You've given me nothing but joy and laughter and excitement since I met you. I don't want to give you more to grieve about in return."

So she didn't mistrust him; she was protecting him. John hardly knew what to feel.

He pulled her head down to his shoulder and cradled it in his strong hand. "What's yours is mine, right? Your grief; your joy; your experiences. What's mine is yours, whatever there is of me to be had. We share. I love you. All of you. Don't keep things from me; it's my right to grieve for what grieves you."

"Yes, Captain," she promised, and kissed him.

"It's my right to kill this guy, also," John continued when he could breathe again. "We'll get onto that as soon as this case is wrapped up." He said this lightly, his concern centered on comforting his wife; but every fiber of his being burned in righteous fury.

"Whatever makes you happy," Mary said.

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As John stood in the alleyway, struggling to control his frustrated rage, Sherlock wandered up. "Ah, there you are. Lestrade has been looking for you."

John sighed. Lestrade was nearly as useless in talking to the press as Sherlock was. The doctor had had his work cut out for him that day, with press conferences and statements to be made and with supervising Sherlock's official reports to the local police and to Scotland Yard; not to mention finding an attorney for Mary's friend and settling Mr. Turner's affairs. "All right, back into the fray," he groaned. "How I hate all this. Damn it, I just want to take Mary out of this and go home."

Sherlock gazed at his friend astutely. "She told you last night, didn't she? She finally talked to you about the assault she suffered at sixteen."

"Hmm," John grunted. "I don't care how you deduced that, Sherlock, but you're right, she did. Well, she told me bit. I don't have the name of the monster who attacked her, but he was her legal guardian at the time so he shouldn't be hard to find. There should be some record, somewhere." He bent to scoop up a rock and threw it with all his strength against a skip a few yards away. "Not a stranger. Not a bloody acquaintance. No, it was the bastard who was meant to be protecting her that brutalized her." His voice rose as he spoke until he was nearly shouting, infuriated.

Sherlock nodded soberly. "I'll call Mycroft. He'll find the culprit before the day is out, I'll warrant. What are you planning to do to him?"

John considered his answer carefully. _It's my right to kill him,_ he had told Mary. _Whatever makes you happy_, Mary had said.

She had meant it as a quip.

John took it as permission.


	6. To Avenge Her Heart

He stood at the one-way mirror and gazed on the man who had assaulted his wife. Tall, burly, and coarse-featured, with blunt-fingered hands and cold, bestial eyes, Nat Denton was the most repulsive-looking person he'd ever had to meet. Or perhaps his perceptions were colored by his knowledge. Picturing this monster touching a tiny, sixteen-year-old Mary made his insides roil, and John had to close his eyes and take several deep breaths to calm himself.

"A real brute, isn't he?" Lestrade commented tightly, watching the prisoner seated at the interview table. "Are you certain you don't want him cuffed?"

John opened his eyes and nodded grimly. "No. I need him to be afraid of me because of who I am, not because he's restrained and helpless to defend himself."

"Are you still determined to go in alone?" Sherlock inquired emotionlessly. John looked at his friend and saw what few would discern in the detective—a cold fury behind the mask of indifference.

"I have to do this myself," John told him gently. "I'm sorry, I know it's selfish of me. But I need to be the one to do this."

"We'll be right here, keeping an eye on events, mate," Lestrade told him, his voice full of understanding. "If you need us, just give a signal and we'll charge right in." John nodded again. It was good to know that two such good men had his back. It was not that he was afraid of the prisoner. He had fought and defeated many such opponents in his lifetime: bullies who depended upon their size to intimidate, but who were too stupid to know how to use their own advantages. Such men had no idea how to fight someone who refused to be intimidated, and were usually terrified by any opposition. No, John was more concerned with keeping his own impulses under control. He did not want his righteous fury to overcome him and ruin his plan.

He steeled himself, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the interrogation room, aware of the sound of the door closing and locking behind him. He stood a moment just inside, silently staring at the man who had brutalized his Mary.

"You're not my lawyer. Who the hell are you?" Denton demanded angrily.

John forced his voice to remain quiet and calm. "My name is John Watson. I am formerly a Captain in the RAMC. I am a doctor. I am a consultant to Scotland Yard." He paused for effect. "Most importantly, I am Mary Morstan's husband." He was gratified to see the prisoner blanch at that.

But Denton recovered quickly. "So what?" the prisoner growled obstinately. "You can't do nothin' to me. I got rights." He gestured to the video camera suspended from the ceiling in one corner. "You can't do nothin'," he repeated with some satisfaction.

If Denton had shown deep remorse, John might have been tempted to be merciful. If he had indicated any sense of guilt for his crimes, John might have altered his plan. The prisoner had, with his bravado and his smug countenance, sealed his own fate. John smirked and waved a hand at the camera. The blinking red indicator light immediately switched off.

"I can do," John assured Denton, ice in his voice, "absolutely anything I like." He approached the table slowly and sat across from the prisoner. "You see, Mary has made a number of important and influential friends. Men in high positions in the government and at Scotland Yard." He saw Denton's eyes flicker towards the one-way mirror. "Oh, yes, we're being watched. By Mary's friends. If you attack me, they'll be in here in a flash. At the inquiry, they'll find we killed you in self-defense." He smiled his most menacing smile.

All color had now drained from Denton's face. "What do you want?" he choked.

John leaned forward, his arms folded on the table. "I want to be sure that you understand precisely what it is that you have done," he explained carefully, speaking softly and taking his time. "Mary was sent to live with you and your wife because she needed a place of refuge. She had just lost her father and she had no other living family. She was a young girl quite alone in the world. She needed help. She needed a home, and all that a home implies—care, belonging, safety. You and your wife agreed to give her those things." Now John allowed his voice raise a bit, and he stabbed Denton with piercing eyes. "But instead, you offered her a life of constant terror. She lived in fear of being attacked; and then, of course, you attacked her."

Denton scooted his chair back from the table angrily. "I don't have to listen to this. Guard! I want to go back now! Guard!"

Rolling his eyes, John shook his head. "There's just Mary's friends out there, idiot. Today, you are the one in need of place of refuge and safety, and it will be refused you, just as you refused Mary. Now, I have thought carefully about what should be done to you," he continued calmly, sitting back in his chair, crossing his arms and gazing at the man across from him as if he were one of Sherlock's specimens in a jar. "I thought about bringing Mary's medical records with me and reading them off to you—eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth being the idea. But I didn't need to bring it with me, did I? Because the contents of it are burned into my brain. Everything you did to her is in here." John pointed to his temple, never taking his eyes off his prey. His voice was low and mesmerizing. "Every broken bone. Every ruptured organ. Every bruise and contusion. I could easily replicate her injuries. I'm a doctor. I know how to break people."

Denton was now breathing hard, his eyes wide with panic. "Hey, I didn't go to hurt the girl!" he protested. "She broke a bloody bottle over my head! I hadn't planned to hurt her, but she . . . she. . ."

The table overturned in one, quick motion of John's hand, and there was no longer any barrier between them. The outraged soldier stood and grasped the prisoner's shirt in his hands and jerked him from his seat, then kicked the chair aside. "Do you really want to tell me," he grated out between clenched teeth, "that she ought to have just submitted to rape without fighting back and she would have been okay? Is that really," he shook Denton hard, raising his voice, "is that really something you want to say to me?" He threw the man to the floor, chest heaving with rage.

Denton scrambled backwards until the wall frustrated his escape. "No, no, I didn't mean that. Really, I didn't," he cried.

"I should hope not," John straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders formidably.

"I done my time!" Denton continued desperately. "I paid my dues! You can't do nothin' to me."

"According to the laws of England, that's true. You've paid for your crimes against my wife to the satisfaction of the crown," John conceded in a harsh tone. "Not, however, to MY satisfaction." He approached the cowering Denton menacingly. "And there's also the matter of the crimes committed against our child," he added, stopping his advance with the tips of his shoes touching the prisoner's feet. "The injuries you inflicted on Mary were directly responsible for the death of our baby." Now John crouched down to eye-level with Denton. "You murdered my only child," he ground out grimly in a voice like flint. "How do you pay for that? How do you make that right?"

Abruptly, John stood and turned his back on Denton, pacing the length of the room, his eyes on the one-way mirror where he knew his friends were riveted to his every action. "A life for a life," he said sternly.

"You can't pin that on me," Denton whined. "I didn't touch your kid."

"A life for a life," John repeated mercilessly, turning to face his prey once more. "Here's what's going to happen, Denton. You're going to live out your sentence here, for the satisfaction of the victims of the crime you committed that put you here. That has nothing to do with Mary, and I have no right to interfere with their acquisition of justice. But eventually, you will be released. And then, Denton," John smiled threateningly, "you're all mine."

Denton slid up the wall to his feet. "You can't touch me! Once I'm out of here, I'll . . . ."

"Shut up!" the doctor ordered sharply. "And sit down." Denton obeyed immediately, picking up his overturned chair and sitting down on it hard.

"I can do whatever the hell I damn-well please," John continued, his voice steely and his face hard. "I've told you Mary has friends in Scotland Yard and in the government. We have ways of keeping track of you, and believe me, we will. There's nowhere you can go to elude us. There's no place you can hide. And one day, when you least expect it, death will come to you, Denton."

John paced back across the room to stand within a foot of Denton. Looking down on the prisoner, he rasped out harshly, "I'm a patient man. I can bide my time. The perfect opportunity will show itself eventually. It could be months. It could be years. But never forget, Denton, that death is coming for you. It may look like an accident. It may look like natural causes. It may even look like some unexpected illness. But you will die one day, Denton, and in such a way that I will never be implicated. I promise you that. You will die, and I," John added with a chilling grin, "will smile."

With that, John turned smartly on his heel and went to the door. His friends were watching; he did not even need to raise his hand before the door swung open. He closed it behind him and leaned back against it, pulling in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Every fiber of his being was trembling with emotion.

"That was brilliant, John," Sherlock commended him. "Well done."

John grimaced and gave a quick nod of acknowledgement before pushing off the door and heading on through the maze of corridors to the exit. Behind him, he could hear Lestrade and Sherlock conversing.

"So after Denton gets out, what do we do?" Lestrade was asking.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "Denton's own mind does our work for us after this. Unless something dreadfully unfortunate happens, we should never have to deal with the bastard again."

Lestrade snorted with laughter. "That IS brilliant! He spends the rest of his days waiting for the other shoe to drop!"

"Everyone dies eventually," Sherlock went on to explain. "People are able to ignore that fact for the most part; Denton will be exquisitely aware of his coming demise every moment of every day. When Mary lived under his roof, she was constantly waiting for the attack she knew was to come. Now her attacker will learn exactly what that was like."

They left the building and headed through the parking lot, John still in the lead, still needing his space.

"Does Mary know about this scheme of yours?" Lestrade inquired.

"No. I doubt she would approve. She is a much kinder person than John is," Sherlock replied. "I imagine she would find the constant terror of the man over a period of perhaps thirty or forty years to be . . . excessive."

Lestrade grunted. "I can see that point of view."

"However, if she does find out about our plan and objects to it, John can simply remind her that she did, at one time, tell him to do 'whatever makes him happy,'" Sherlock concluded.

"Did it, I wonder? Make him happy?" Lestrade mused.

John could feel the detective's eyes boring into the back of his head in scrutiny. "I don't know," his friend conceded. "Time will tell."

They had now reached the car, and John turned to look at his friends just in time to see Sherlock give a broad and sociopathic grin.

"For myself," said Sherlock, "I am quite happy with the results of our revenge."

"Sadistic though it may be, I have to say, I am, too," Lestrade agreed cheerfully.

"I'll be happy when I get home to Mary," John said grimly, and slid into the car.


	7. To Romance Her Heart

This is for the lovely and long-suffering mrspencil; she'll know why. . . .

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He turned up at the clinic with a bouquet of roses and a request that she accompany him for dinner. Mary, glowing with delight at the surprise, put the flowers in a vase on her desk and explained to the receptionist that she was leaving a bit early.

Angelo met them at the door. "Your table is ready, Dr. Watson!" he exclaimed. "For you and your beautiful wife! You are ravishing, my dear, ravishing!" He kissed Mary on both cheeks, to her great amusement, and gestured them onward. "My best table, at the front window. Two candles for my favorite couple! Always a pleasure to serve old friends!" He produced two menus and disappeared.

Mary sat down, giggling. "I'm so glad he's forgiven me for not being Sherlock." John sniggered, reveling in the success of his surprise.

John didn't need to look at the menu—he always ordered the same thing. Instead, he gazed at his ravishing bride with pleasure. That she had agreed to spend her life with him remained a constant source of astonishment.

"So what's the occasion, Captain?" she asked cheerfully after they had placed their order.

"I'm amazed you don't remember," he teased, grinning. "It's the third anniversary of our first date."

Mary's eyes lit up with joy. "Oh! So it is! Fancy you remembering the exact date. What a hopeless romantic you are!"

John affected a smug look. "Is a man likely to forget the date of one of the most important days of his life?"

"Certainly, most men do!" Mary laughed.

"Well, I am not most men, am I? Besides, I knew our first date was the day after I wrote up your case, so I just had to look up the date on my blog."

"Romantic, and clever as well," Mary praised him, warming his heart. "What a wonderful idea this was."

"Just because you're an old, married woman doesn't mean you don't deserve to be romanced," John smiled. She smacked his arm and beamed at him.

"And we sat at this very table, didn't we?" she marveled. "Angelo wasn't as lovely, though. He hated me then. And I was so terrified!"

John's eyebrows raised. "Terrified? Of Angelo? Or of me?"

"Of me! Well, I was already completely mad for you, you see. I wanted so much to make a good impression. I was afraid I'd frighten you off," Mary confessed.

John was filled with a sense of wonder. "Really? You were in love with me that early on? I wish I'd known it at the time. I was fairly terrified, myself."

"Oh, I fell for you during the case," Mary assured him. "I'd never met anyone so singularly exciting. But when did you fall in love me?" she demanded.

John looked thoughtful. "I'm not really sure, to be honest. It just sort of came over me gradually."

Mary chortled, "Like a disease?"

John considered this seriously. "Hmm. I suppose it was very like it. Heart palpitations, racing pulse, elevated temperature, inability to concentrate . . . . I'm surprised I wasn't hospitalized, now that I think about it." Mary snorted with laughter. He continued, "I do know when I became aware I was in love with you, though. Remember that night we went to the cinema and then walked on Westminster Bridge?"

Mary smiled dreamily. "Our first kiss. No, of course I don't remember, Captain. Not at all."

Chuckling, John went on. "Before I left the flat that evening, Sherlock said, 'This one could break your heart, couldn't she?' And I realized, he was right." They smiled at each other affectionately. Two and half years of marriage, and he still felt grateful that she loved him. In return, he adored her completely and with ferocity.

Angelo brought their dinner, and they ate for a moment in companionable silence. Finally, Mary asked casually, "So, Captain, are you ever going to tell me about your visit with Nat Denton last week?"

John's insides jumped with momentary shock, but then a sheepish grin spread across his face. "I don't know why I ever even try to keep anything from you."

"I don't know why, either," Mary informed him smartly. "So, must I expect a visit from the police with a warrant for your arrest?"

John tried to look as innocent as possible. "I promise you, we did nothing illegal. Or immoral. I just . . . explained a few things, that's all."

She nodded thoughtfully. "By 'we', I assume you mean Sherlock was there as well?"

"Yes. So was Greg. And Mycroft made the arrangements with the prison. It's all above board," John assured her.

"And by 'explain', I hope you mean you used words," Mary continued. "Just words."

"I didn't hurt him, Mary. I just talked to him." He said earnestly, but considered a moment, then added, "The furniture might have been abused a bit."

She snorted with a short laugh. "I can imagine. Do you really understand how utterly terrifying you are when you're angry?"

"I can make it work for me," John shrugged modestly.

"But you didn't punch him?" she asked incredulously.

"Not at all," he replied airily. After a short silence, he amended, "I might have dropped him, once, though."

"Mmm-hmm," she frowned. "Well, I suppose you could have done worse. I can't say I approve, not for my sake. But for the baby. . . ."

John felt a stirring of conscience. Perhaps he'd terrorized Denton a bit more excessively than necessary. He'd have to think about amending his threats a bit. In a few years.

They had finished eating as they talked. "What shall we do now? Walk in the park?" he asked.

Mary smiled. "Let's walk across Westminster Bridge and snog," she suggested coyly.

John considered this soberly. "I don't know. That anniversary isn't for three weeks yet. We don't want to go rushing things."

The corners of her mouth pulled up into a wicked grin. "Let's live dangerously," she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.


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